


Fixing a Hole, Building a Bridge

by kittimau



Series: Dragon Age Lovers [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Banter, Bickering, Blood Loss, Confessions, Cute, Denial of Feelings, Doctoring Wounds, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Feelings Realization, Flirting, Injury, Mild Blood, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Not sure if this qualifies as hurt comfort but..., Pre-Relationship, Sexual Tension, Teasing, Unresolved Sexual Tension, not graphic, patching up wounds, they want each other but they're still being stupid about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:55:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22624405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittimau/pseuds/kittimau
Summary: Written for theDA Loversprompts from ScharouxPrompt:Patching UpAlistair is injured, and with Wynne back at the group's main camp, Morrigan must tend to his wound. She discovers the tension between them might have a different cause than she thought.
Relationships: Alistair/Morrigan
Series: Dragon Age Lovers [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1620610
Comments: 20
Kudos: 46





	Fixing a Hole, Building a Bridge

“’Twas a foolish act, Alistair.” 

Morrigan scowled at the copper-haired warrior sitting cross-legged in her tent. The evening beyond it was silent and still but for the low hum of insects and soft, intermittent _roo-roo-roo_ of a nocturnal bird nested in a tree nearby. And here, within the worn and weathered canvas, the panting and pained grunts of her - her - that _man_. 

“That’s me, the idiot who – what was it I did again? Oh, yes. _Saved your life_.” 

“I did not need your help,” she hissed.

His shoulders shook as he chortled, but he flinched when the arrow protruding from one of them shifted with the movement. “I think the proper response is ‘thank you’.”

“ _Thank_ you? For accidentally getting skewered and prolonging our travel time by several hours? Perhaps even days? Unlikely. How one even manages such an injury in so much armor is beyond me.”

En route to Denerim to restock on supplies and search the Chanter’s board to make some quick coin, they’d been ambushed by bandits. Alistair took an arrow to the shoulder, and they were forced to set up camp. Knowing they were low on herbs, she sent Leliana and the other Warden off to gather more, leaving her alone to tend to the insufferable oaf in front of her. The oaf with radiant hazel eyes that all too often followed her; on the battlefield, on the road, and here, at this moment. 

Surely, those looks were not what they appeared. How could they be? The man hated her, and she him... Yet his alluring gaze, his presence, and every rare, oft accidental, touch sent a strange, unfamiliar sensation deep into the pit of her stomach. Not quite repulsion, nor entirely unpleasant, however-

“Who says it was an accident?” he said, interrupting her thoughts with a lopsided grin stretched across his lips.

Morrigan knelt to the ground, muttering and rummaging through her pack. “Why would anyone purposely allow themselves to be shot? What a ridiculous notion.”

“Oh, I don’t know. To save damsels in distress, perhaps?”

She flashed him a withering glare. “I am no _damsel._ And certainly not in need of saving! Least of all by _you_.”

Alistair belted out another laugh and immediately winced in pain. The imbecile. He looked ill; grimacing, left arm crossed over his torso to hold the opposite one tightly to his side lest it move too much and drive the arrow deeper. There was a fine sheen of sweat on his pallid skin, though at present she knew not whether it was merely from the effort exerted getting him here, or fever. The latter would be an ominous sign indeed.

The knot in her gut that had formed upon the moment of his injury twisted tighter. A sense of foreboding, like that which she experienced as the sky clouded over and thunder clapped in the distance during one of her many solitary outings in the Korcari Wilds. In those moments, the search for shelter was imperative. In this situation, it was not the security of her own wellbeing she desired, but his. How strange.

Before joining these young Wardens on their quest, she’d never known concern for others to ever exceed that which she felt for herself. One did not survive in the Wilds, or with a mother such as hers, for long without putting oneself first. Survival; that was important. Power. Not… not… She wracked her brain for the proper word, the label one would typically use. And the one that crossed her mind first was entirely unexpected. _Friends_. 

She shuddered and pushed the idea far and away. _Focus, Morrigan_. Now was not the time to sit and wax philosophical, much less get… sentimental. Ugh. 

“You will make it worse if you keep moving so, _Alistair_ ,” she said, her voice wavering slightly on his name. “Lie down.”

With one hand behind his neck and one steadying the injured shoulder, she helped him ease gently down onto the bedroll she laid out when they set up the tent. He bit his lip to hold back a cry. Much as she teased and taunted, called him weak or childish, the man did have admirable stamina, skill, and a high tolerance for pain. With heavy armor, injuries such as this were usually rare, but the steel-tipped bolt had found a gap and shot straight through the chain mail beneath. And she knew not how far yet, nor how bad the damage was.

“Drink this,” she ordered, handing him a small, clear flask. “It will… ease some of your pain.”

“Oh, ho! Is that concern I hear?” Alistair smiled, weakly this time as his energy waned. “I’m touched. I might even cry.”

“W-what?” Her pale cheeks grew warm. She was not one to easily fluster, but somehow the royal bastard always found a way to get under her skin. What was it about him that irked her so? “Shut up, you fool. Clearly you have lost too much blood and it has robbed you of your senses.”

When he made to speak, she interrupted with a slender finger against his lips. “Cease your prattling and do as I say!”

Sighing, Alistair downed the potion in one gulp, face puckering immediately after from the bitter taste, and laid his head back down. 

“Let’s…” He paused, seemingly out of breath, and swallowed thickly. “Let’s get this over with.”

“This will be... quite unpleasant. Here.” Morrigan produced a thick strap of leather from her pack. “Bite down on this.”

He nodded and she leaned over him to place the leather between his teeth. She caught his gaze as it moved lazily from her barely covered chest back up to her eyes, noting the crimson blush that stained his cheeks. She rolled her eyes. The Chantry boy likely wouldn't even know what to do with a woman given the chance. 

Unfortunate, really. He was not… bad looking. Quite the opposite. After traveling together and occupying the same camp for so many months, she’d seen her fair share of the man. Having grown up in Templar dormitories with little privacy, he was far less shy about walking around in minimal clothing than he was with seeing the women bare their skin - almost as if he did not equate the two things in his mind. She and Leliana had made a game of it recently, to see how red and flustered Alistair could get. She smirked while the memories flitted through her mind.

“Mmmph,” Alistair growled below her, voice muffled as he tried to get her attention back to the task at hand. 

She shook her head to clear it and reached for the arrow. “Ready?”

He closed his eyes and grunted. With one hand on the shaft and the other upon his chest to hold him down, she yanked on the arrow. It came free with a sickening squelch. The leather muted Alistair’s shout and his face visibly paled. Breathing a sigh of relief that the arrowhead hadn’t broken off within his shoulder, she tossed it to the side and immediately began working at the clasps of his armor. Opening his eyes, he turned his head and spit out the leather, panting to catch his breath. 

“Now sit up.”

Alistair struggled a moment before propping himself up on his elbows, jaw clenched to fight back the sounds threatening to tear from his throat. He was clearly too weak. Wrapping her arms around his broad figure, she pulled him up the rest of the way and let him lean on her while she undid the buckles at his back. She had to twist herself over his lap slightly to avoid bumping the wound. 

The sheer size of him nearly enveloped her, and had he not been sitting and hunched over, he could easily crush her with his weight alone. She breathed in the earthy aroma permeating from his sweat-drenched skin. It was a heavy, heady blend; earthy, like leather and fresh soil, salt and musk. Not at all putrid as she’d so often teased, despite the copper tinge of blood and gore laced between. They’d never been close enough for her to take in the various notes, nor had they ever touched so intimately. 

Head lolling against her shoulder, he moaned into her neck, breath warm on her chilled skin. Pulse racing, heat flooded her cheeks again and gooseflesh prickled up her arms at the amalgamation of feelings their contact stirred. It had been a while since she’d been with a man…

_Focus!_

Hastening the pace of her skilled fingers, she undid the remaining clasps and gingerly wiggled him out of the armor and mail. After setting each piece out of the way, she reached for the hem of his shirt and began dragging it up over his stomach.

“Not even going to buy me dinner, first? Or even a glass of wine?” His voice was softer than usual, its timbre lower. He chuckled feebly, lips whispering close enough to tickle the dark hair dangling at the nape of her long, slender neck. 

Was he - _no_ , surely he was not implying anything untoward between them. Not the shy Chantry boy. But the moment she thought that, one of his hands settled upon her bare back. She stilled. He’d lost too much blood, that was all. He was merely steadying himself. Yes. Nothing more.

“Ugh… Enough of that. Your blathering is most annoying.” 

“Wynne will have my hide for ruining another shirt.”

“And I will have it now if you do not hush,” she chided.

She pushed him off, though gently so as not to aggravate his injury, and slipped his shirt over his head before easing him back down to the pallet below. Her golden eyes drifted down his tanned body, over the sculpted musculature of his chest and abdomen, the powerful arms and shoulders built by years of dedicated physical training. 

He sighed dejectedly, interrupting her train of thought yet again. “There really is no getting on your good side, is there?”

Morrigan turned sharply away and set to work pouring water from a flask into a wooden bowl, heating it with a conjured flame. Somehow, even that warmth compared little to that which had steadily been filling her in the short time they'd spent alone.

“Let us assume that this imaginary good side exists." She soaked a clean rag, wrung it out, and began cleaning Alistair’s wound. He hissed at the first swipe, but held his tongue thereafter, watching her carefully while she worked. "What exactly would be the benefit for you to ‘get on it’?”

“I’ll settle for a smile, actually.”

“Oh?” She smirked. So typical of a man! That was all she was good for, then. Smiling and looking pretty for _his_ enjoyment. 

“Not like that. A _real_ one.”

“Do I not smile enough to suit you? How very negligent! Shall I bat my eyelashes as well?” 

Placing one hand over his now clean wound, the pale green glow of magic flowing from her palm filled the tent. It washed over them both, delicate and ethereal and cool like moonlight on a snowy winter evening as she channeled soothing coils of Fade energy through his raw, tender flesh to stem the already-waning flow of blood and seal the wound. 

“Oh, come on, Morrigan. I don’t mean it like… I just want...” He hesitated, briefly met her eyes, and turned his head away to stare at the canvas wall painted with their shadows. 

“Let me see. I would expect favor to come with a price. Perhaps you would be willing to pay a compliment? Is that too much, hm?” Undoubtedly, he’d fail to come up with anything, and that would put an end to his shenanigans. 

Instead, he took her free hand, still damp, and whispered her name. Meeting his eyes, now on her again and heavy with exhaustion but no less bright, she paused her ministrations. The glow faded, bathing them in darkness save but for the lit candle in the tent's corner. 

Alistair took a breath. “I think you are brilliant, strong, and powerful… _and_ more than a little terrifying.”

He didn’t laugh this time. Instead, his expression shifted. His eyes passed over her slim body, kneeling in the dirt beside him, the sweat, grime, and blood of their recent battle still painting her porcelain, candle-lit skin. But his expression was not one of disgust. It was pure, unabashed _desire_. And when his gaze returned to hers, the passion within them sent a pleasurable chill up her spine. 

“You are beautiful, Morrigan. We may not always get along, but I wanted you to know that in case… well. You know.”

Her eyes grew wide as she absorbed his words. _He,_ of all people, thought that of _her_? That was not at all what she expected. Yet the admission seemed genuine. Mind suddenly blank, she froze until the light squeeze of her fingers brought her back to the present.

Cocking her head, she smirked and rewarded him with a sultry and suggestive gaze. 

“I suppose stating the obvious will have to do,” she said. He grinned back and released her hand. “Very well, then. You are on my good side. Best watch your step that you don’t fall off.”

“Morrigan, you do realize you’re telling the clumsiest man in Thedas not to fall. How could I ever live up to such impossible standards? You’re not even giving me a fighting chance, here.”

She rolled her eyes, but the smile remained on her lips. “You really are a fool.”

Alistair laughed. It was a strained, pitiful sound, so unlike his usual sarcastic chuckles and boisterous guffaws. Weak and hoarse, it filled her with regret. Regret that she had not been stronger, faster. Though he had put _himself_ in this position, perhaps if she’d seen the arrow coming, he would have never been struck. 

Then again, that also meant he might never have made this confession. And she wouldn’t have realized not only that his feelings for her were not at all what she imagined, but that she felt a similar attraction to him. Despite her attempts to deny that the disconcerting tension between them indicated something other than mutual contempt, she had to admit he’d earned her begrudging respect… and more.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> What can I say?  
>   
> I am a huge sucker for Morristair.
> 
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> 
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